:: Wednesday, June 30, 2004 ::
Damn:: Monday, June 28, 2004 ::
Oh my God.
I mean, oh my God!
I have absolutely no idea what to say to you people!
I spent ten days in Chicago and, yeah, stuff happened, but that was a while ago and I didn't have internet access and now nothing is happening because I'm forcing myself to rest and...
Oh my God!
I get up, go to work, come home from work, have dinner, read a little and go to bed?
Is this what my life has become without the satellite dish?
J
:: happy hour begins at 6:47 PM [+] ::
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What to Wear on Tuesday:: Sunday, June 13, 2004 ::
I would like to point out to my professional colleagues that the following items are not prohibited by our new company dress code.
Prom or wedding attire
Muu muus
Tap shoes
Togas
Burkhas
Trench coats
Most store-bought Halloween costumes
Marching band uniforms
Edible pants
Latex
Scrubs
Snowsuits
Chain mail
Chaps
or
Anything made out of faux bear skin
In addition, the dress code does not specifically prohibit cross-dressing or nudity.
Affectionately yours,
Julietspeaks
:: happy hour begins at 6:53 PM [+] ::
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Of course. Potentially my last post for weeks and it's about this.:: Thursday, June 10, 2004 ::
I like to stay in hotels.
Okay, I don't. But if I have to travel, I'd almost always rather be tucked away in a nice hotel room somewhere than staying at someone's home. Our hosts are usually very gracious people with whom we'd like to spend as much time as possible, but all the grace and goodwill in the world won't change the fact that it's awful to poop in somebody else's bathroom.
Not that it's fantastic to poop in a hotel room, either, but at least there you don't have people waiting for you to flush, people with whom you must refrain from making eye contact for at least an hour afterward because they know, and you know that they know, and the whole process is just not something that should be shared.
For the most part.
And if I don't really like to do it even at my parents' house, imagine how I felt at the in-laws' the first time. Speaksy and I weren't even married yet, and there I was, looking at the product of that last stalk of broccoli, while the water in the toilet swirled around and around but refused to drain. I'd just met these people and already I'd had a pooping mishap in their home. As it happens the toilet had a trick, except I didn't know it.
So that was the first time Speaksy met my poop because, y'know, how else was I going to get the hell out of there.
There were other traps at my in-laws' house, skillfully laid and sprung at various times over the last decade. One of my favorite has to be the hell-hot night we rolled into town with two beagle puppies in tow. After settling ourselves into the bedroom, we realized we were armed with only a midget oscillating fan to keep the heatdemons at bay, and said fan was sitting on the floor, blowing hot air under the bed instead of at us.
So we moved it into the window.
And it oscillated its ass right off again.
Burst into a lotta lil pieces.
And the dogs were barking, and we were sweating, and just when it couldn't get any worse the slats underneath the foot-end of my side of the bed gave way.
As, shortly thereafter, did Speaksy's.
So now we're lying at a 45-degree angle, laughing our asses off because in the space of twenty minutes we've broken a fan AND a bed.
Until the entire slat network failed and put the mattress full on the floor.
Which, of course, had we been patient with the stupid midget fan it would finally have been blowing on us.
Don't mess with God's plan.
And God doesn't mean for us to stay with other people. If we must leave our homes, we should do so with stops at Holiday Inn or a Westin, if we are so positioned.
I, myself, will be staying in a hotel this very week to come. I'll try to update from the road as often as possible, but if all else fails I will be back to my regular irregular schedule of posting come Monday, June 28.
Have a wonderful two weeks, people! Poop at home!
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 2:34 PM [+] ::
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Oops:: Wednesday, June 09, 2004 ::
Not much time to post this morning, but the whole of my existence can be summed up in one sentence anyway:
I swim in a river of snot.
To pass the time, why not try out some of the new links in my sidebar? There's some really cool stuff out there - go see it! And if you have a link you think I should add, let me know!
Have a great day, everyone!
J
:: happy hour begins at 8:12 AM [+] ::
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They made us take a stress test at work yesterday.:: Tuesday, June 08, 2004 ::
Allow me to say that again.
They made us take a stress test at work yesterday.
Apparently they're trying to determine the general stress level of people in my position. They're going to do it again at the end of the year to see if we feel better.
This is what's called, getting you coming and going.
The test itself read like something straight out of Cosmo. "Do you like yourself?" "Do you feel like you have control over your life?" "Do you feel like you can talk to your boss?"
Um, let's see. I guess, maybe, and yes. Two points.
"How do other people feel about you?"
I don't know, and I don't care. One point.
"Do you believe your boss helps or hinders your efforts to do a good job?"
My boss is fine; it's all those other people I fucking hate. Y'know, the ones who misspell their own names and get pissed at me about it. The ones who believe all their thoughts will magically transform themselves into actions on my part. The ones who throw crap around like confetti and expect me to catch it.
No points for that one, but they didn't phrase the question properly. I'm deducting a point because the question is stupid.
All in all, I only came up with a moderate stress level. I'm in the "fine" range, as opposed to the "desperately needs IV downers, ulcer medication and a ten-week vacation at a ranch with cows" box where I surely belong.
And I signed my test. We were told we could write our names if we wanted, but otherwise the results would be anonymous. I CLAIM MY SCORE, BABY! And it's not like they can't tell I'm riding the razor thin edge of my sanity.
They can always tell.
It's the hair.
Juliet Speaks,
Moderately Stressed since 1987
:: happy hour begins at 7:42 AM [+] ::
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Bradley! You're our only hope!:: Monday, June 07, 2004 ::
Seriously, JackieLynn. Your comment was bang on yesterday - I was a little afraid I'd killed everyone off with the force of Doris!
Instead, she's doing her damnedest to kill me.
I thought around lunchtime yesterday her powers had worn off a bit. My mistake. Instead of lobbing shoes at my closed office door and trying to quell my hatred for the entire stupid human population, I wound up tossing Kleenex around.
Yeah. The bitch brought plague.
This means war.
Not that I have a battle plan yet; the Dayquil is making it a little hard for me to concentrate. But my spirit is strong! I will destroy her!
With my laser beam!
Oh. This is bad.
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 8:07 AM [+] ::
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Oh for God's sake, it was just the once and I didn't even enjoy it!:: Friday, June 04, 2004 ::
Doris Day is Satan.
I know we all know that, but with all the new kids in the class I thought a refresher would be nice.
Also nice for me.
Because I almost - ALMOST - forgot.
Until I spent all weekend singing (Why Did I Tell You I Was Going to) Shanghai. Yes, the catchy little tune (with all of ten words) whose verses bleed into one another until you've sung it so many times without stopping that all you're left with is a faint memory of your childhood phone number and maybe part of the Mentos jingle.
And still the song is with you.
So, to remind myself how the damn thing ends, I popped it into the CD player on the way to work this morning.
I didn't even make it off of my street before a truck pulled out in front of me, forcing me to slam on my brakes.
Which sent my overloaded handbag crashing to the floor.
Several minutes at the Exxon later I still couldn't find my favorite lipstick; I think it imploded from the heat of the evil that is Doris Day.
Before I invoke the name of Bradley Whitford to protect me, I want to make sure she's only stalking me like this. To that end, I have loaded Shanghai as my song of the week. Listen to the song as often as possible for the next week and report back your findings. Please treat this as a very serious experiment with extremely important consequences.
Because if it's the rest of you, too, we'll call Al Gore.
For I am a jealous fan.
Have a great Monday, everyone!
Whitford's Whore
(Sometimes you gotta make your own luck.)
:: happy hour begins at 8:05 AM [+] ::
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I got stuck in a denim halter top in the dressing room at Old Navy:: Thursday, June 03, 2004 ::
I find it's generally best to get the humiliation out there first and let things settle out from there.
We've all had zippers malfunction, or buttons turn stubborn or whatever. Everyone's had that moment in the dressing room when you just stand there, mindful of the security personnel who are surely watching you with their popcorn, and contemplate calling in a salesgirl to help you out.
But this was in a totally different category.
This was user error.
This was pulling down the halter, only to have it get stuck on my boobs on the way back off.
On My Boobs.
Forget calling the salesgirl; I was mulling over how long I could last in there before dying of malnutrition, and would my boobs deflate enough in the process to GET ME OUT OF THIS FUCKING HALTER TOP!!!
It wasn't even that cute, which isn't the point but I want to mention it. I mean, hell, if you're going to live the rest of your days and eventually be buried with a garment stuck under your boobs, you want something that reflects your choice to maintain a tasteful lifestyle.
What HFS, HFS Jr. and Wicked H don't know is that the crisis occurred while we were shopping together at Potomac Mills. On my list of options was using the little walkie-talkies we'd brought along to contact someone with scissors to come get me out. However, it is one thing to write, I got stuck in a denim halter top in the dressing room at Old Navy, and quite another to broadcast it over a radio for the rest of the mall to hear. The last thing I needed was a crowd of spectators.
And it may have been my imagination, but by this point I was pretty sure my boobs were getting bigger. It's like trying to get a ring off your finger; the more you pull, the more your finger swells and the less likely you are to get the damn thing off. Also, I was starting to develop a fine sheen of perspiration over my body, and if you'll please remember, this halter top was DENIM and not very pliable DRY.
I panicked.
To be totally honest I'm not sure how I got that halter top off. I teared up, there was a blur of activity, and then I was back in my own clothes and smoothing down my hair. I'm not even sure what happened to the garment itself; when I left the dressing room it was no longer with me.
Maybe I was abducted by aliens. Maybe it was divine intervention. Maybe I just Incredible-Hulked it off my body; who knows. But I do know that whatever entity helped me out let me keep my ignominy to myself.
Until last night, when I had a bona fide flashback in another Old Navy store and Speaksy had to rescue a shaking, stuttering me from the clearance aisle.
Have a wonderful weekend, everyone!
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 7:47 AM [+] ::
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"I hope your new neighbors aren't freaks." - Auntie G and Uncle J:: Wednesday, June 02, 2004 ::
6:30pm. My hair is scraped into a haphazard bun with pieces going a little bit of everywhere. I'm braless under an old army-issue tank top and my ratty jean shorts are three sizes too big. I'm shouting across the back yard through a driving rainstorm, trying to herd the beagles back inside.
On my feet, a white plastic bag from Safeway shields my newly-painted purple toenails from the wet.
I'm thinking we're the freaks.
J
:: happy hour begins at 7:56 AM [+] ::
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"LITERATE" Not Equal To "SMART":: Tuesday, June 01, 2004 ::
To say that I read voraciously is both a cliche and an understatement.
I HOOVER books.
When I was a kid I'd lie in bed reading until one of my parents told me to turn out the light. So I would.
And when they walked away I'd turn it back on.
Eventually someone would notice and yelling would follow, so I'd move to the floor to catch a beam from the hallway. My arms would get so tired I'd have to prop the book up on a pile of clothes or something, but until my eyes were little slits of sandpaper I kept reading. (Incidentally, when your mother tells you, "You're going to ruin your eyes," you should listen to her because she's right; and, these nighttime literary lessons taught me about alarm clock math - if I go to sleep now I'll get five hours, which is good, but it'll take me a while to fall asleep so I'll really only be getting four and a half, so I may as well read a while longer and make it an even four...)
Anyway.
I still do this. I'll read the back of a peanut butter jar if it's handy. I'll read it until four in the morning.
Insomnia is learned.
And it wouldn't be such a big deal except that I have a 25-mile commute every morning now, and without heavy metal music (which I generally loathe at any other time of day) I would never make it to work.
Speaking of work, it's funny how much I don't want to read the four billion emails waiting for me. Also how hostile heavy metal music makes me...
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 7:43 AM [+] ::
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Finding My Inner Ho-ness
Good morning, everyone! I'm going to try to post every day this week, since it's a short week and all, but please bear with me; there are nine gallons of paint sitting in my kitchen.
I just couldn't get comfortable last night; I was either too hot or too cold, and there's apparently a pretty serious turf war going on with the pets over my sleeping space. Needless to say I woke up feeling a bit squicky, only to get on the scale and find a pound that wasn't there yesterday.
A pound of bloat.
Yes, kids. Yes it is.
Suddenly the cute blouse I had laid out last night was hitting me in all the Rizzo places and my panty line could be seen from Saturn.
It so isn't a thong day.
In my woke-up-late quest to find something that didn't make me look like a hooker I discovered a new challenge: I would have to iron.
On the first work day after a holiday weekend, I would have to iron.
Or look like a ho.
Iron.
Ho.
Iron.
Ho.
Iron.
Heads.
Dammit.
Happy Ho-Free Tuesday, everyone!
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 7:54 AM [+] ::
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